'Untitled' by Richard

I open the back door of the community hall and step into the cold evening. As the door closes behind me the thump of that awful music and the shouts of the party are muffled.

I breathe a sigh of relief and wonder slowly through the car-park. Perhaps I can pretend I'm getting something out of the car. A jacket.

There's someone else now, someone else has opened the door. I hear the music momentarily loud and treble before returning to a bass thump as the door closes. It's Graham's nephew. The annoying one.

'You having a good night Colin?' he asks, lighting a Cigarette, 'What are you doing out here?'

'I was just getting something out of the car. A jacket.'

'Yeah? Where are you going? It's sweaty in there. It's a good party. No need for a jacket in there.'

'I'm just going to the shop. I need to get something. I need to get...' Think of something. Think of something plausible. 'A newspaper.'

'A newspaper?' Graham asks, bemused, 'At 10 o'clock at night?'

'Yes, I like to read yesterday's newspaper at breakfast, whilst eating a Pan au Chocolat. I'm going to get a Pan au Chocolat as well.'

Graham looks confused at this. I get my coat out of the boot of the Passat and begin to walk, no idea where I'm going. Why am I walking through this estate so late at night? Why am I not in the party "enjoying myself"?

My phone vibrates in the pocket. It's the wife. I ignore it and put it back in my pocket.

'Nice phone Granddad', I turn round. It's a gang of teenagers, oh god, where am I? 'What are you doing out so late at night?'

(writing exercise - 'life of the party' from 3AM Epiphany) 18/02/13

'Alone in the Womb' by Patrick, Jessica, Richard, Emily

Shut up now. I've had enough.   

Do go on I'm keen to hear more.

Do go on, I haven't been able to sleep recently, but the sound of your voice droning on is making me feel very drowsy,

And I dream I am with you far away and only you comfort me forever.

Waking I find the room empty, as homely as a condemned man's cell.

I went to sleep and I was surrounded by loved ones.

I woke up suddenly and realised that everyone I had ever loved had disappeared

And I am with them; they are inside me.

(Writing exercise - 'Echo Poem') 04/02/13

Untitled - by Patrick

Last year 350 people called the emergency services to check if they were dreaming or not. Checking if you’re awake has become big business since a government report dismissed the traditional pinch method as inadequate. Books and DVDs have flooded the market, specialist services assist clients in verifying their reality in any situation. TV ads run all day and billboards ask, ‘Are you awake now? Can you be sure?’

It’s common to see people jumping up and flapping their arms. If they start to fly they know they’re dreaming. I once watched a whole crowd of people take off like a flock of pigeons. I waited for them to wake up until I realised I was the one dreaming and woke myself.

I can’t fly, even in dreams, so I’ve hired a man to come and punch me in the face every hour. He’s a lean man, looks like Frank Sinatra. He wears a red boxing glove on his right hand, keeping the left free to open doors and sign invoices. He’s left-handed but delivers a strong enough punch with his right. 

As I wait nervously anticipating the latest blow it occurs to me that hiring a man to punch me in the face is something I’d do in a dream. Maybe I dreamt about him and am now awake. What if I’ve fallen asleep because he forgot to turn up and am now stuck in a dream? I go over to the mirror and attempt to punch myself in the face but my fist instinctively resists a heavy impact. I take a few slugs of whiskey to loosen up, swing my arm round, miss my face and fall backwards. I pick myself up, stagger to the phone and dial 999.

(writing exercise - 'life of the party' from 3AM Epiphany) 21/01/13 

'Jessica Rabbit Has Lost Her Car' - by Suzi

Jessica Rabbit has lost her car.

It is somewhere in a multi-storey car-park in Norwich.

Not only has she lost her car but also her car keys, her pink lipstick and her favourite hairband.

Jessica Rabbit is very sad.

To make matters worse, she has shrunk.

She is now so tiny that if she found her car she wouldn't be able to drive it. She wouldn't even be able to open the door.

She is so small that if she managed to get inside she'd be able to stand under the clutch or the brake pedal and still have room above her head. 

Not that she can of course get into her car because she has lost her car keys. They are somewhere with a pink lipstick and a hairband. They are somewhere but they are not here.

How did all this come to pass?

Jessica Rabbit is not sure. She is fairly certain that this Monday morning started out like any other but where it all went wrong is a mystery. It might have been the horrid pressure of the sales. So many people crushed into so many shops, all so desperate for the bargain of the year that they push and trample one another. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it was something you did... yes YOU...feeling guilty are you? What did you do to Jessica Rabbit?

Did you shrink her? Why? Why did you shrink Jessica Rabbit? Why would you do that? 

Jessica Rabbit is very sad and to top it all off she's lost her car. It's somewhere in a multi-storey car-park in Norwich.

(writing exercise - 'life of the party' from 3AM Epiphany) 21/01/13

'Wig' - by Richard

I am from another planet. It's very different from yours. The first thing to mention is that on my planet we don't have hair. We don't have follicles. We don't have long, lustrous, shiny hair, or beards, eyebrows, macho chest hair, pubic hair, or the wiry hair that grows out of ears, nostrils and big toes. We are bald.

When I arrived on your planet I was naked except for a traditional garment, like a big shawl crossed with a toga, crossed with a nappy, that is common on our world. My spaceship crashed in the middle of a large field. A four-legged creature stood nearby, feeding on the green ground-hair that sprouted abundantly around. I had never seen such a sight. On my planet we don't have anything that sprouts from the ground. The rocky scalp beneath our feet is as barren as the flesh-scalp on our heads. I proceeded to the four-legged creature. It was richly furnished with lush brown hair, which I couldn't help but stroke, feeling it's prickly wires.

26/11/12

'The Ceramic Businessman' by Brett

Let’s imagine the ceramic businessman going to work. Getting up out of his ceramic bed, sand under the pillow, broken shards of his own feet at the bottom of the bed.

Let’s imagine him brushing his tiny, brittle, sandpaper teeth. Taking a shower and realising a towel is not as effective as he would like.

Let’s imagine, as he walks to work, the cracks in the pavement giant crevasses; puddles like lakes; the litter in the gutter vast swathes of insurmountable rubbish — an impossible challenge for our little hero to overcome.

Let us pause, and wonder at how easily he might avoid the ticket inspectors, and creep silently between the feet of the giants on the underground.

Careful, ceramic businessman, not to be trampled! You are fragile: A tiny, insignificant, unseen, unremembered agent in the world of the organic.

And even if he reaches his desk, will he have the strength to lift the pen or the coffee cup, or summon the will not to crumble?

Poor, poor little ceramic businessman: Go home, go back to bed, back to the sand between your sandy toes.

Sleep, sleep, tiny ceramic businessman. Sleep.

08/10/12